


Do You Feel Like Suicide?

by TheSchubita



Series: Death On Two Legs [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1984, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paul is his own warning, Roger is depressive and scared, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Sacrifice, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, kind of but not quite, shit is about to go down, very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-12-25 20:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSchubita/pseuds/TheSchubita
Summary: Actions have consequences, and Roger's time is almost up - he's saying goodbye.





	Do You Feel Like Suicide?

**Author's Note:**

> This work is purely fictional and is meant for fandom only. If you're one of the people mentioned here, please don't proceed. If this shows up on any social media shared with the guys (Insta, Twitter) I'll come to your house and breathe loudly till you take it down ☺.
> 
> First off, I'd like to thank @riceinthechurch on tumblr, who has been a MAJOR help in this, and has read every part dutifully, and helped name the series, as well as most parts. Please go read their fic "Pain Is So Close To Pleasure" - they're aliquis on AO3.
> 
> This was a tiny hc I originally posted on @bohemian-rhapsody-slash (KyluxFicHell on here, seriously, check out their fics too) on tumblr anonymously, and it grew legs and, well, here we are.
> 
> One thing that is important to me is that everything is tagged appropriately. If you read something that you feel should be tagged, please tell me. I want no one to be uncomfortable, or worse, triggered by something I didn't catch.
> 
> Also, English is not my first language, and I'm always willing to learn - if you catch something weird, you're free to tell me, as long as you're nice about it ;).
> 
> .
> 
> LOVE U ALL FOR COMMENTING AND THE KUDOS AND BOOKMARKING - Bring tissues for this one.

Roger downs the rest of his scotch with a grimace, and sets the glass down with a heavy thud. It’s 10AM and he’s already having a pretty shitty day – the mood he’s in isn’t new for him, per se, after all, it was _that Day_.

 

What is new, though, is the realization that his life his now halfway over.

 

Roger just feels tired at the realization. He looks at the clock on his wall, some ugly monstrosity Dom had insisted on hanging there, and watches as the seconds tick away, ticking away his life.

 

Mocking him.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, before he throws his glass at full speed at the clock, shards flying everywhere. It seems he does feel angry, after all.

 

He doesn’t look, but he can still hear the clock ticking away, completely untouched by his outburst. He pulls at his hair, curling up on the couch. He makes a mental note to clean up the mess before Dom returns with the children – they don’t need to see that. He’s glad Dominique is a very smart woman, and though she doesn’t know _why_ he always is in a dark mood around May, she has the good sense to leave him to it.

 

Roger knows he’s wallowing in self-pity, knows it’s unbecoming, but he thinks he deserves a bit of slack, today. He made a choice when he was twenty-four, and he doesn’t regret that choice – he could never. He just wishes he’d have longer. He wishes for it to already to be over. He wishes he had a lot less of regrets concerning his life, and his three bandmates in particular. The past years were – a lot. No person alive doesn’t have at least on regret, he knows that, but they had all been drifting apart for a long time, and now _Freddie had fucking left them_.

 

He fucking left them for _Paul_. Roger can’t quite describe the feeling that grips him whenever he thinks of Freddie, far away and alone, at Paul’s mercy.

 

Maybe Paul had grown bored of torturing him, and moved on to Freddie, and Freddie – Freddie had always had always been the most gentle out of them, most vulnerable to the world. Roger doesn’t know if that is because unlike himself or John or Brian, he didn’t have a family backing him in the more traditional sense of the word (and Roger knows they all have been caught up with their little families, often too busy for Freddie), or if it is simply because was someone who just gave and gave until there’s nothing left to take.

 

Roger misses Freddie fiercely. Misses his kindness, his biting tongue, his brilliance. He’s scared shitless for him, and there has been a growing feeling of unease in his chest whenever he’s thinking about Freddie in Munich. He had refused to spare him any kind thought, for the first few weeks, because he’s been furious and hurt at him, and he knows his temper gets the better of him at times. But he’s never been one to hold long grudges, and as his anger passed, he had grown worried beyond imagination.

 

He looks at the phone. It’s something he has been doing for the past few days, but he has been too prideful to actually pick it up and dial the number he knows by heart. But the gnawing feeling returns when he looks away, and he wrestles with himself for a moment, before sighing in defeat.

 

“Fuck you,” he tells the phone, before he picks up and dials.

 

 _Click._ "Freddie –" Roger begins, but is interrupted by a cold chuckle. Roger shudders, but barrels on. _"Paul_."

 

"Hello, _Rog,"_ Roger wants nothing more than tell him to fuck off, but he needs to talk to Fred. "How have you been? I mean, it's such a special day and all –" 

 

"I wanted to talk to Fred," he presses on, not wanting to get into that with _Paul._

 

"Oh, he can't come to the phone right now."

 

"Paul –"

 

"You see," Paul says, voice lilting and Roger feels dread fill his stomach. "He's been feeling a bit under the weather." Roger’s heart beats so loud in his chest he's sure it can be heard half across the world. He swallows.

 

"What," he coughs, trying to clear his throat. "What do you mean?" Paul laughs quietly.

 

"Well, _Freddie_ thinks it’s a cold," He says. Roger doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ say anything, throat closing up. "But, well –" Paul says, and laughs again.

 

"What did you _do_?" Roger whispers, accusatory. 

 

"Oh, you know the rules, I didn’t do anything – not directly, anyway."

 

" _Paul,"_ Roger snaps. 

 

"Mind your tone," Paul reprimands him with a voice suddenly much _– more,_ and Roger’s mouth snaps shut against his will. "Well, Freddie is not wrong, I suppose. On the surface, it _is_ a cold." Roger can tell he's enjoying this. "But, well, that's just a symptom of what is happening. Or, will happen." Roger waits, cold sweat breaking out. "You see, dear Freddie is dying." 

 

The words take a moment to sink in, and then Roger visibly recoils from the phone, almost tearing it out the wall in the process.

 

" _No,_ " he says, voice trembling. "You're – you're lying."

 

"Oh, am I?" Paul wonders, and he sounds so delighted that Roger wants to throw up.

 

" _What did you do?"_ Roger says thinly, voice closer to a high-pitched whining. 

 

" _Oh,_ Roger," Paul croons. " _I_ didn’t do anything, I told you. You know," he continues conversationally. "These days you got to be really careful _who you fuck._ "

 

Roger can feel himself turn white as a sheet.

 

_He had It._

 

_AIDS._

 

_Freddie had AIDS._

 

_Freddie was going to die a horrible, slow death, stripping away everything that made him Freddie._

 

 _"_ You _fucker_ -"

 

"Now, now," Paul tuts. "I'm not responsible for Freddie’s choices."

 

"Well you sure as shit didn't help matters along though, huh?"

 

"I always liked that potty mouth of yours you know?" Roger growls. "In fact, I like it so much I'm willing to offer you a deal."

 

The world goes quiet.

 

"I already sold my soul to you," Roger says, tiredly. Whatever game Paul is playing now, he doesn’t want to be part of it. Not today. "I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure you can only sell that once."

 

"That's very true," Paul agrees in a saccharine voice. "However, we could – ah – tweak your contract just a little bit." Roger lets the information wash over him, and he takes a breath.

 

"And Fred wouldn’t – he wouldn’t –" he can’t even bring himself to say it.

 

"No," Paul says, and if Roger didn’t know any better, he'd think Paul sounded regretful. "He would live a life free of that disease. It would never touch him again." It sounds so, so tempting. Roger breathes in, breathes out, repeats the process three times so he doesn’t faint.

 

"And in return?"

 

"Ah," Paul says, and Roger can _hear_ the slimy smirk from the other side of the line. "A reduced sentence – or rather, immediate execution." 

 

Roger fights against the sob, he really does. He doesn’t want to give Paul any satisfaction. 

"You never meant for me to live beyond the standard ten years, did you?" For once, Paul is quiet. "Do you really hate me – hate _us_ – so much?" He wonders. Paul tuts.

 

"This hasn’t got anything to do with _hate,_ Roger," he says. "It's strictly business. You don’t _have_ to take the deal – you can simply go ahead and live your remaining ten years with your adorable little children, and cute wife whom you don’t really love, letting Freddie to rot –" he speaks casually, as if he’s only talking about the weather.

 

Roger hates him with a burning passion.

 

"But could you really live with yourself?" Paul wonders. "You’d get maybe five years with _lovely_ Freddie, before he wastes away, and then you’d leave behind Brian and dear John as well – and poor Brian would lose himself in his head, and sweet Deaky would _break_ on losing Freddie. Do you really want that? Are you really that selfish?" Paul pauses, and Roger shuts his eyes tightly. "Your life is already worth so _little,_ Rog," Paul coos. "But I suppose, you can just pretend you don't know jack sh–"

 

Roger can’t listen to another word or he’ll break. "If I do it – if I agree –" Roger says haltingly. He can’t believe what he’s about to do, again, but – what choice does he have really? "I have – conditions. Two, in fact." Paul hums. "First, give me – a week – seven days to, to sort out my life. To say goodbye." Paul clucks, clearly displeased.

 

"Three days," he says. Roger shakes his head, tears welling up.

 

"Six," he begs. 

 

"Four," Paul says coldly, losing his playful demeanor. 

 

"Five. Paul, _please_." Paul is silent for a moment.

 

"That depends on your second condition," Paul says.

 

"My children," Roger says quietly. "Whatever you've planned – however I'm going to – _go_ – I don’t want them to see." Paul remains quiet for a long while, mulling it over.

 

"Aren’t you a sweet thing," he says finally, tone mockingly gentle. "Those terms are acceptable. So now –" and Roger doesn’t mean to startle, he really doesn’t, but in one blink, he’s alone, and in the next, Paul is standing close, _too close_ , eyes glowing an unholy red. He swallows. 

 

"–We seal it with a kiss."

 

He leans in with no warning, and Roger feels sick as cold lips brush his own, unable to contain the full body shudder. Paul lets the kiss linger unnecessarily, and Roger does his best to stay still, until Paul strokes his cheek in a mockery of affection and _finally_ steps back. Roger is trembling, and he has to forcibly shake himself out of his stupor.

 

"How – how's it gonna look – I mean, how're you gonna –" Roger can’t even finish the sentence. Paul giggles.

 

"Well, the hellhounds dragging you to hell are meant more metaphorical, at least on the physical plane – and besides, we can’t have a famous rockstar such as yourself being torn to shreds by some animal. Would raise unwanted questions," Paul muses, before he looks at Roger with a positively delighted smirk. "You’ve always been fond of cocaine, haven’t you?"

 

"I hate you," Roger whispers, looking to the ground, and finally, his unshed tears finally spill over his cheeks. He doesn’t care anymore. Paul throws his head back and laughs, and Roger swallows down the hatred he feels.

 

“Can I – can I see Fred?” Roger can’t help but ask. “Or,” he stutters, as Paul’s face shuts off immediately. “Just, talk to him?”

 

"I’ll see you _soon,_ Roger," he says, and then he's gone. Roger's legs give out, and he falls to his knees.

 

The comfort that Freddie will live, that Brian lived, is small in the face of his imminent demise.

 

.

 

It takes a herculean effort for him to stop his legs from trembling, and an even bigger one to stop his tears from flowing. Roger is sure that by now, he must have no tears left to cry. Not trusting his body right now, he remains hunched over himself on the floor for a while longer, trying to gather his strength. When he does manage to get himself up, he looks around his house, looks at the lavish furniture and the sheer size and opulence of it all, and feels lost.

 

 _This doesn’t belong to him any longer_. Nothing belongs to him, anymore, not even himself.

 

He shakes himself out of it, and stumbles to the bathroom, before he throws up in the sink. He wipes his mouth with a shaking hand, before he raises his gaze to look at himself in the mirror. He takes in the pale, sunken cheeks, tear tracks staining his face. Looks at his own blood-shot eyes, looking dull and lifeless.

 

_So this is what a dead person looks like._

 

It’s not the first time he’s thought it. There had been countless times in the past ten years when he looked at himself as if his body, his face, wasn’t his own. But it’s the first time he truly knows what it means.

 

Less than five days from now, he’ll be gone. He’ll leave a widow, children, an ungodly amount of money to them. He’ll leave a sister and a mother. He’ll leave the three loves of his life, and none of them, none of all of these people will know why.

 

The world will think he was just some other drugged up rockstar, that finally took more than he could handle. One coke-whore less in the world. They’ll tear him to shreds.

 

Roger can’t find the energy to care about any of that, now. He had always been obsessed with the thought of what kind of legacy he left to the world, even before he went and sold his soul. But as he looks at the stranger in the mirror, he finds that they don’t matter.

 

Another regret, for the time he wasted thinking they ever did.

 

What he does care about now are the few people close to his heart. He cares about what he leaves them with. He can’t change how his death will look like, but – he can do something about their last impression of him.

 

He can say goodbye.

 

.

 

The first, and easiest, is his is sister. Clare had never taken part in his very public and fast-paced life, and because of that, since he was twenty-something, he saw her much less than he would have liked to, but she had wanted nothing to do with any of the publicity that came with having a famous brother, and thus, they saw each other only once or twice a year. It was something he’d always bemoaned, but now it was a small blessing. The times they were so close to each other that they could tell a secret from the other by the twitch of their nose was long since gone.

 

When he calls her, she’s vaguely confused, but at his firm dismissal of her budding concern, she takes him at face value, and tells him to come visit soon, tells him that she misses him. He laughs, so he doesn’t start to cry, and promises, and tells her he loves her.

 

When he hangs up, he squashes the regret down. He’s done with regrets.

 

.

 

His mother is harder, simply because she’s his _mother_. He’s seen that woman brave his asshole father for years, and has seen her find the strength to leave him and _thrive_. The admiration he has for her is boundless.

 

It’s hard to lie to her, because she knows him in ways no one else does, and though she’s certainly elderly by now, she’s _very_ sharp, still. He doesn’t bother lying to her – instead he talks about everything else, and lets himself be lulled by her voice, that chatters on about her everyday life.

 

He listens to her for hours, settled comfortably on the floor, and her voice manages to soothe over something inside him. He wants to ask if he can come visit her, but he’s afraid he’ll miss his children coming home in the process – and they’re not something he’d take chances with, ever.

 

Before he hangs up, he asks her if there’s something he can do for her. His mother remains quiet for a bit longer than he’s comfortable with, and she eventually asks him to take care with a sharp voice. He doesn’t reply to that, because he can’t lie to his mother. Instead, he softly tells her to take care, and hangs up before she can reply.

 

He knows he’s being a coward.

 

.

 

He knows he’s stalling, but instead of being an adult and calling his lawyer to settle things, he goes to bed at 7PM with a bottle of pure vodka. He sleeps for twelve hours straight.

 

He doesn’t dream.

 

.

 

In the morning, he eats some of everything he can find in his kitchen. It’s likely that’s going to be the last few times he gets to taste food. He savors everything, and eats so much that he ends up puking his guts out.

 

He doesn’t regret it.

 

(That’s a new one).

 

.

 

By noon of the same day, he has called up every legal representative, every personal assistant and subtly put his affairs in order.

 

He feels empty.

 

He dreads the next phone call.

 

.

 

He stares at the phone for a long time. The person he wants to call the most is Freddie, it has been so long since he heard his lovely voice – but he can’t risk having Paul to pick up the phone by chance and piss him off, resulting him to drag him to –

 

He forcefully smothers that train of thought. He knows he has to call Deaky and Brian, but like his mother, he can’t really lie to them – they’ll ask too many questions, and unlike his mother, he won’t be able to simply cut them off. John would be easier, he supposes, but he can’t talk to Brian last. It would be poetic, sure, to end it where it began, but if he does that he’ll have a mental breakdown, and then Brian would definitely be worried and then he’d ruin his carefully laid plans.

 

So he calls Brian first.

 

.

 

Brian had thankfully quite been distracted by his own drama at home (not that he blamed Chrissie at all) but he still had been able to tell in two seconds flat that something was wrong. Roger honestly doesn’t know how Brian always just _knows_.

 

(“ _Roger you sound weird – it sounds like you’re saying goodbye – you aren’t leaving for Munich too?” “Do I_ look _like would?” “I don’t know Roger, you’re acting really shifty –“ “I’m just bored – you could come visit me.” “Oh, and now you’re evading my question –“)_

 

At that point, Brian had to cut their phone call short, as Chrissie had started yelling in the background (those two had some serious communication issues), but had promised to call back soon. Roger had agreed and wished him good luck, to which Brian called him an arse, fondly, before he hung up.

 

 _Soon_ might be too late.

 

.

 

He calls Deaky last. He figures John will figure out something is wrong either way, but he has barely three days left. Not even sharp-tongued, genius Deaky would be able to pull his ass out of the fire. If that were the case, Roger would’ve told him about the deal the minute it happened, ten years ago.

 

However, John surprises him.

 

“The _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Is the first thing that comes out of John’s pretty mouth before Roger has said so much as “Hi”.

 

“What?” he stumbles over the word, because John rarely takes that tone. The last time he used that, he fucked off to Bali for three weeks.

 

“Why is your PA calling mine in a frenzy because apparently, Roger Taylor is ‘ _putting his affairs in order’_? And now you’re calling me – you probably already called Brian – and I know you called your mother and sister.” John sounds close to apoplectic, but all that Roger manages to say is;

 

“Why the hell do you know that I called my family?” John snorts.

 

“Your mum called me. She was very upset with you.” Roger pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“Why would my mother be calling _you_?”

 

“Because I’m the favorite,” John says drily, and the thing is, that’s actually the truth. Somehow, their parents collectively adore John more than they do them. It’s scary. “Now, what’s this about you bringing your affairs in order I’m hearing?”

 

“Nothing,” Roger lies. He can hear John scoff.

 

“Yeah right. Roger –“

 

“I said everything’s fine,” Roger says. There’s dead silence from the other end of the line, and in retrospection, he might have shrieked his way through that sentence.

 

“I’m coming over,” John says, and hangs up.

 

“Shit,” Roger says with feeling, before he rips the phone out of the wall and runs to lock every window and door.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of an ongoing series that's already written and finished and already on a posting schedule - always updates on Thursdays!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought - Comments are love ♥
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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